


Comfort Zone

by ScarletThread



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Meeting, Alternate Universe, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Poirot, three word prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:09:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletThread/pseuds/ScarletThread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's settling into a new flat, trying to convince himself that he can cope with life after Afghanistan, but it may take an unlikely friendship to make this place really feel like home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort Zone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ghastlyshilo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghastlyshilo/gifts).



> I was given the three-word prompt "leather jacket, elevator, telly" and created an alternate meeting between our favorite detective-doctor duo.

John averted his eyes as he made his way through his new flat. He didn't want to see how poorly the movers were handling his things. He didn't own very much, and so hadn't wanted to hire movers, but his leg had to be taken into account. He glanced down at the cursed cane as he limped across the floor. It made it rather difficult to carry boxes.

One thing he hadn't forced himself to trust movers with, however, was his books. Anatomical, referential, and fictional: one box held his small collection, and he could carry it himself. He knew it was a light load, and they weren't terribly special, but it seemed important, if only to himself, to create the illusion of independence.

Especially when he was moving into a new and very different home. John's last apartment had been close to his family, but now he wanted to start believing he could survive on his own. His sister had kept calling, hoping he'd still keep in touch, and he knew his parents were still worried about how he was coping with life after combat. It was hard to tell how his erratic life was affecting him when he was constantly checked in on, questioned, pitied. He had to test independence out, live away from them for a while. He had convinced himself that he was looking forward to this quiet life, but in reality, he was afraid. Afraid that being alone, being without the monotonous drone of concerned acquaintances that numbed his head, would make all the nightmares of his past creep in again. But he forced himself to be rational, at least for the moment. It was just a new building, new neighbors. Not a new life.

So he told himself.

John stepped off the elevator and out to the car he'd rented to get himself from his old home to this new one. In the backseat was a small box of books. He smiled at it. It reminded him of home. Maybe just sitting, relaxing and reading, once the movers were all gone and the flat wasn't full of noise and action, would help him get used to being in such a different habitat.

As he ambled back inside, he glanced at the stairs. Oh, he wished he could. But he resignedly turned to the elevator and got himself inside. He had just pressed the button for the second floor when someone else stepped in. It was a tall man around his age, with dark curls and piercing eyes. A long, dark coat billowed around his thin stature. He turned instinctively to hit the button for his level, but paused visibly when he realized that it had already been pushed. John watched him as he stepped back and waited for the doors to close. When they started moving, he turned slightly toward John.

Surveying him reflexively, his brow furrowed. "You're new here." He didn't say it like he was surprised, curious, or inquisitive. When it left his mouth, it was fact.

John noticed this, but replied, "Yes," all the same.

The man nodded. "You've recently returned from service," he continued.

John's eyes widened. "Yes, how—"

"Have you met Harold from apartment C? He's just back from service as well. Afghanistan. Two years."

"No, I haven't," John stammered. "Is he one of your friends?"

"No, we've never spoken a word to each other." With that, the lift stopped, and the man stepped off. John watched him stride down the hall and disappear into apartment B. Dazed, he stepped awkwardly through the door of apartment A, his box of books still under his arm.

The flat was depressingly empty. Stiff chairs stood unwelcomingly here and there, and boxes still littered the floor. With a sigh, John set down the books and began unpacking. It was tedious work, but he hoped that adding more of his own things would make the flat seem like more of a home.

He had just opened the last box when he heard terse knocking on his door. Bewildered, he stood up. He'd only just moved in; his parents wouldn't be too worried yet, and his sister wouldn't want to seem restless. And he didn't know anyone in his building yet. There was no reason for someone to come see him. Or so he thought.

When he opened the door, the man from the lift was standing there, looking a bit impatient. He began speaking as soon as John appeared:

"You're not doing anything of any importance, are you?" He sounded as if he didn't expect "yes, I am actually" to be the answer.

John, taken off guard by the sudden visit and inscrutable question, replied, "Well, I've just been unpacking..."

"Ah. Boring. Surely you'd like to do something else." The man's eyes were sharp and expectant. When John struggled for a response, he added, "It'll just take a moment." Then he started back towards flat B.

John, very confused but also curious, took only a second to follow.

The man's flat was cluttered and unorganized, but the room that John followed him into was spotless. It was obviously some sort of lab meant for at-home experimentation. As he looked around, John found himself wondering what on earth this man did for a living.

"Take off your jacket, please." The man had his back to John, fiddling with equipment.

John looked down and realized he hadn't removed his jacket when he'd come back to his flat with his books. He supposed the flat didn't really feel comfortable enough yet for that to be habit. He obligingly shrugged it off his shoulders, but, remembering that he was standing in a stranger's laboratory, became somewhat apprehensive as he set it carefully on a chair. If this predicament started to take a science-fiction turn, he was moving to a new building.

Yet he couldn't help but give a small amount of trust to this man. Stranger or not, he was the first person to acknowledge him since he came to this new place. Somehow, this man had figured out his history by looking at his face, and to John, that seemed rather special.

At that moment, John realized that neither of them knew the other's name.

"I'm John Watson, by the way," he said, because it seemed like the other man wasn't going to be the one to begin any introductions.

"I know," the man said simply.

John blinked. "You _know_ ; how do you know? We've never met before."

"The movers you hired weren't exactly mum in their opinions about you," the man explained off-handedly. "They were complaining the whole morning. It seems you didn't tip them very well."

"Yeah, well, they broke my tea set," John mumbled.

"You trusted them with a tea set but not a box of old books?"

John stared. "Have you been spying on me?"

The man smirked. "Merely observing." He finally stepped toward John, a small piece of cotton in his hand. "Could you hold out your arm please?"

"Hang on," John said, leaning back just a bit. The man paused. "I don't even know who you are, or what you're doing."

The man pursed his lips, but conceded, "My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"And, why do I need to hold out my arm?"

The man gestured with the cotton, to which he had applied some sort of solution. "I need to see how this reacts to the oils on your skin."

"You can't do it yourself?"

"I'd rather not."

"What is it, then?"

"A simple mixture of a few benign chemicals,” he explained, somewhat patronizingly. “Nothing dangerous, I assure you."

John looked into the man's eyes. Then he held out his arm.

Sherlock touched his fingers to the side of John's hand to keep it steady, then neatly swiped the gauze down a few inches of John's wrist. The area fizzed for a couple seconds, like hydrogen peroxide applied to a cut, then settled down. Despite the less-than-climactic reaction, Sherlock seemed thrilled.

"Yes!" he cried, startling John. "I knew it!" He hurried to the other side of the table and plucked up a cell phone. John watched as his fingers ran across the tiny keys.

"Sorry—What are you doing?" he asked, still standing in the same spot, his arm still slightly raised.

"Texting," the man replied simply. He glanced up. "You can wash that off."

John spied the deep sink by the wall and walked over to it. While the water was running, Sherlock added, "Detective Inspector Lestrade."

John glanced over his shoulder. "Sorry?"

"That's who I was texting." He stepped into the living room and called from there, "I was investigating a murder."

"What?" John stepped to the doorway of the lab. "You're investigating a murder?"

"Was," Sherlock corrected him. "The case is closed now." He seemed very pleased.

John was still a bit speechless. "Why are—were—you investigating a murder?"

"Oh, that's what I do," Sherlock explained, as if he had just now remembered that John had barely any idea who he was. "I'm a private consultant for New Scotland Yard."

John took this in. Then he said, "Well, I guess I should be glad to have you as my neighbor, then."

Sherlock's brow furrowed a bit. "Glad to have me as a neighbor?" he repeated dubiously.

"Well, yeah. Feel a bit safer, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. He seemed unconvinced. Then, "Well, thank you for your help."

"Of course." John nodded, then made his way toward the door. Sherlock's eyes followed him.

When John had returned to his own flat, he remembered he hadn't been done unpacking the last box when Sherlock had interrupted him. He strode over to it. What a strange day he'd had. And he had a feeling he hadn't seen the last of Sherlock Holmes.

He pulled the last few items out of the box and placed them around his apartment. Then he sat in one of the stiff chairs and tried to read one of his books, but the unfamiliar atmosphere made it hard for him to concentrate. He set the book aside. Suddenly he remembered that it was Saturday. In his old flat, he'd gotten into the habit of watching _Poirot_ every Saturday night. He frowned as he looked around his apartment. Watching the show would probably make him feel more at home, remind him of the unfailing routine of life, but it would be a few days before he could get his television hooked up. With a defeated sigh, he stood and wandered around the apartment, searching hopelessly for something to distract him from the discomfort of his new living quarters.

He had just been considering going to bed to make believe that he wasn't at such a loss when he heard a familiar curt knock at his door. He hurried across the flat and opened the door.

"You left your jacket," Sherlock said, holding the leather garment out to John. He took it.

"Thank you," he said. He turned and put the jacket on a chair, but didn't move from the doorway. Neither did Sherlock. Suddenly he thought of something.

"Erm..." John looked up at Sherlock. "I don't suppose you have a telly in your flat?"

Sherlock held his gaze. "Yes."

"It's just that there's one program I always watch, and my telly isn't working yet..." He trailed off, realizing that he sounded rather needy.

"And you were wondering if you could watch it on mine."

John felt his face grow hot. "Um—"

"Is it _Poirot_?"

John looked up. "Uh, yeah, it is."

Sherlock nodded. "I watch it every week. I warn you, though, I can always solve it fifteen minutes in."

John smirked incredulously. "No, you can't."

Sherlock gestured, and John followed him into his flat. They cleared off two armchairs and settled in to watch the show.

“So you figured out all that stuff about me after seeing me once?” John said as Sherlock rummaged for the remote.

“It’s what I do,” Sherlock replied. “Although I have to admit I wasn’t entirely sure you’d agree to help me.”

“Why not?”

“Most people wouldn’t trust a stranger with a laboratory in his apartment.”

John chuckled at that. “I guess I’m not most people, then.”

“No, evidently not,” Sherlock murmured, mostly to himself, it seemed. “You are a wonder, John Watson.”

Just then, they heard the familiar simper of saxophone, and the conversation ended. Sherlock kept shouting at the telly, but John didn't mind. He smiled and leaned back in the chair, surrounded by the sounds of mystery and deduction. Somehow, sitting in that flat with Sherlock, the brilliant and enigmatic man he'd met only that day, he felt more at home than he ever had before.


End file.
